


a knife or a narrow gaze

by Sathanas



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-03
Updated: 2014-02-03
Packaged: 2018-01-11 01:59:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1167273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sathanas/pseuds/Sathanas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even the most skillful shadows cannot mimic the strange softness of these hollow, hungry skins.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a knife or a narrow gaze

**Author's Note:**

> Prompts: adamant, disquiet, restraints.

From the hollows of perfect, peaceful darkness, there comes a whisper as yielding as the world's end.

And if this is the whisper of a certain voice, Malekith is pleased to hear it. And if the voice forms a word, its significance is scratched out by the careless rasp of heavy heels on stone, the slither of cowl and harness being shed, the omen of a hand drawing near, now hesitating, now withholding its caress. Malekith turns his face away to hide a thin smile. At his feet and in the walls and sewn through the planet's core, the Aether stirs, wise to all things, even secrets. Algrim circles him, sleek in shadow, and does not quite touch the stiff line of his neck.

"You sound like a lost thing," Malekith says, watching the walls flutter with his own shallow breath.

"I called for you," Algrim tells him.

"Did you? There are some who claim I hear all. Strange, then, that I heard nothing of my name."

"Perhaps your thoughts were far away, or I did not speak your name."

"Perhaps so. What did you say?"

"'Accursed'," Algrim says, close to his ear.

 _Too bold,_ Malekith tries to say, only half in play; but Algrim's lips are on his mouth, infuriatingly gentle, far more palpable when he withdraws and leaves behind blots of blood as proof that Malekith's sickle-sharp smile has finally been unsheathed. Words suddenly seem weak. They fall away like stars in the void; and the thought is so pleasant that Malekith indulges in the simple exhilaration of skin against skin, teeth dragging across teeth. He allows himself to be tasted and held. He waits until the Aether has gathered in a froth around them like high, dense tides and then eases Algrim backward against it, as delicately as he would touch the thin skin of shadows cast by a mercenary sun.

Lashes of dark energy catch at Algrim's powerful arms and begin to strip him down, to climb and ply him fluidly. Fascinated, Malekith watches it happen. His own body was carved slight and imperfect from a pillar of wrath long ago. If others were shaped with greater care by the cold atom and its unknowable knives, Algrim must have been the first chosen among them. No flaws twist or mark him and the strength folded under his flesh is an unparalleled force. The Aether is a cleaner match for him than any living thing; it holds him more firmly than any embrace Malekith could contrive. And, watching, Malekith decides that he is content with this. He steps away, lips lifted first and fingertips last.

Algrim catches his arm — or tries. A black hasp holds him in place, droning red as if painted with fury. 

"No," he says. "Malekith. This, no. The esteemed Aether, take it away. If," he adds carefully, "that pleases you."

Another step back. Malekith studies him narrowly, somewhat cooled. He asks this while dressed only in degrees of darkness and an obvious desire. "That should not please either of us."

He looks down, pointedly dismissive. Tongues of Aether dart over Algrim's stomach and though his body responds, still he breathes: "Malekith, it means nothing to me now."

And Malekith scowls. The Aether is sublimely beautiful and deft as darkness itself. That anyone should wish it away is unnatural. For a moment, he suspects duplicity, some sour sign of broken faith; but this is Algrim raised before him, whose loyalty is ageless and complete. He stares, thoughtful; he presses fingers to that soft, open throat and watches muscles flicker receptively; he sighs.

"It means everything, always," he says grimly. "You are like the ones who call for an end to the old campaign. Short-sighted and selfish. You ask too much. As it pleases me, the Aether remains. Though perhaps," he adds, soft now, touching Algrim's hip, "not here."

He slides his hand between Algrim's legs. He cradles him, watching his eyes from bare inches away, and then beckons. The Aether falls to black sand and Algrim shudders all over, unable to do anything more. The needs and elations of the flesh overcome him quickly; but even leaning against him Malekith hardly notices. He is thinking of skin untouched by light, of immovable objects, of all the different kinds of conquest. The Aether bleeds off entirely, forgotten, and the shadows stabilize. All the world, he thinks, is night.

Soon Algrim is touching him everywhere, cautiously. Soon Malekith is powerless under his hands, whispering fiercely. The words sound cruel in his own ears, jagged and short like some demand for pain or devotion or the ending of every world, and he finds that he cannot judge which of these things would best suit his desires. He does not know them well enough and his thoughts are far away, carried off in the crawling, skinless skeins of the Aether's limbs. It does not trouble him. Let his body be someone else's concern. Algrim will choose well, he thinks. As he always does.


End file.
